This is the view I saw from the window of my bedroom in the house I lived in as a child until the day I married. The war memorial, an Obelisk, on Alderman’s Hill is called Pots and Pans. No one seems to know why. When I was eleven I had a dog (a Heinz Fifty-Seven variety; a cross between a corgi and a terrier, who probably these days would be called a Torgi) named Rusty. She and I could climb and run back down the hill in twenty minutes. Nowadays I think it would take me an hour just to get to the top. I’m not even going to try.
The house itself doesn’t change. Each tread of the stairs has its own noise; a soft whisper, a sigh of relief underfoot, a crack of protest. Each door sounds my progress through the house; the bedroom door protests its opening on the ill-fitted carpet, the bathroom door shushes closed. Downstairs the living room door opens quietly, then creaks as it’s forced against the many painted-over the hinges and frame. Finally there’s the heavy sigh of kitchen door, as though opening onto another day’s toil.
It’s my mother’s house. 
Once I lived here too. Now I visit.
.
It’s six o’clock in the morning.With laptop and cup of tea I settle down to write. I must have done this hundreds of times before. I wait to hear the thud of her feet as she stomps across the bedroom, the sound of her peeing in the bathroom, the yank on the chain of the flush of the old-fashioned cistern. I hold my breath, force back the slight irritation, hope she gets back into bed. But the mumblings get louder. I hear her tap on my bedroom door: ‘Judith?’ followed by the feigned echo of surprise; ‘you’re up already?’ as she takes the first two steps onto the landing.
In the past I bit back the exasperation. She knew I wrote at this time. I always have; it’s my time. We had a day of shared memories to get through. Again. Of laughing at the old black and white photographs; the different and often outrageous hairstyles and perms, her hats and frilly blouses, my flower-power flared jeans and mini skirts. Hours of mindless TV; Jeremy Kyle, This Morning, Doctors. Lunchtimes; chomping mournfully through thinly buttered Ryvita on diet days – joyfully savouring meat and potato pies and custard slices on ‘who gives a damn’ days. Then the comfort of the afternoon nap and the quiet hour of companionable reading.
I wait to hear the thud of her feet as she stomps across the bedroom floor.
It doesn’t happen.
Some weeks ago, a quick phone call, a frantic journey brought us to to this part of the country, to the hospital, to the ward, to the bed she sat up … cheerfully waving as we walk towards her. ‘Hello love,’ she shouted, ‘ well, here’s another fine pickle I’ve got myself into.’ She seemed perfectly clear, lucid for a few minutes. Then she called me Olive, her sister who’d died some years ago, mixing up past and present; confused. I held her hand, traced the veins under the thin, wrinkled skin, touched the deformed nail on her right hand little finger that once was trapped in the machinery of her winding frame in a cotton mill and never properly grew back..
And I knew there were hard family decisions to be made.
Mum at a family wedding ten years ago.
Yesterday Mum went into residential care. At ninety three she’d lived in this house for sixty-one years.
Today will be the last time I write here; it felt as though it was a ritual I needed to go through. This is what I wrote.
Judith Barrow 
Hugs, Judith. x
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Thanks Sue x
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Thank you Sue. x
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Stunning post. Heartfelt and touching. Thank you for sharing, Paul.
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And thank you, Paul. A difficult one to write but something I needed to do. We all face similar things in life I think
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And thank you, Paul. A difficult one to write but something I needed to do. We all face similar things in life I think
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Reblogged this on furtherramblings.
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That’s lovely, Judith. Evocative and sad. x
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Thank you my lovely friend – and for all the hours you’ve listened to me on the phone through it all.
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What a hard post to read. Last year as I left my parents’ house for the last time after it was sold, I realized that I’d have no reason to ever return—to their city, their street, their house. Right or wrong? I think it’s only that there is a next step and you have to take it. I loved your beautiful post and thank you for the memories you shared, and for my memories that you let me revist.
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I’m both glad and grateful for your response; I hesitated to post it. Initially, my words were just an emotional response to sitting in that empty house and realizing I too had no reason to ever be there again. That everything had changed – forever. Thank you for your kind words
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A truly heartfelt post, Judith. You were brave to write it but perhaps it helped to put your thoughts down on paper. Sending you all best wishes as you go on from here x
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Thank you, Julie. Writing has always been the outlet for me – mostly kept secret. I just felt the need to share this – I had such a mix of emeotions
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The care home thing will get easier – you know I know. Very touching post,J. My mother sometimes calls me Angela (her sister in Australia). One day she told one of the carers at the home that I had come all the way from Australia to see her. I felt bound to admit it was only from Newcastle. xx
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Australia/ Newcastle -Hilarious, Terry. When Mum was in hospital for that week or so before Christmas, she kept singing out rude verses. had the nurses in stitches – it was something she would never have done before. I know you are right – she’s safe and cared for – and in the right place. Thanks for this. x
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Such a touching post, I can hear you speak every word. A world of history in a few paragraphs. Hope everything turns out O.K.
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Thanks Keith. Sure it will. Appreciate the support.
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Thanks for the post. We’re going through the same thing this week with my in-laws and my thoughts are with you. Best wishes
Christoph
x
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It’s a difficult time that seems to affect so many these days. Go with your heart, Christoph, the safety of our elders should outweigh the guilt that there isn’t as better answer than residential care. It doesn’t always but it is better than getting that phone call to say they fell and lay alone for hours. Thoughts are with you J x
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I know it must have been hard, but you did the right thing for your mother. I hope I never have the same decision for mine who is 70 now. I will say a prayer for you both.
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Thank you Mary. It was one of the hardest decisions of my life. But she’s safe and well and seems content.
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